Administer the first dose. Call emergency services. Wait two minutes. Switch nostrils. Administer another. Wait. Wait. As a volunteer with Berkeley NEED, I travel to homeless encampments in Berkeley and Oakland, distributing naloxone, exchanging clean syringes for dirty ones, and providing free testing for various blood-borne pathogens, including HIV. I am a low-income college student living less than a block away from People's Park, a historic place of residence for unhoused people in the Bay Area. This means I often find myself on the front lines of the crisis of substance use in America—a crisis resulting from decades of inadequate education. At seventeen, after witnessing my first overdose, I decided to get a naloxone administration certification. In the long weeks between completing my training and receiving my first naloxone kit, I witnessed two more overdoses. I will always remember the breathless fear of calling 9-1-1, and waiting, and waiting. Once, I recognized someone I treated. As we waited for emergency responders to arrive, the person I resuscitated asked if I remember Ms. Campbell. We had been in her class together in the fifth grade. He smiled, then thanked me for saving his life. I still remember the law enforcement officers who visited Ms. Campbell's class as part of our drug education program. Their message was clear and concise: never do drugs, or you will get in trouble. Never do drugs, or you will become a bad person. At the time, I did not know that, before either of us turned eighteen, I would administer emergency overdose reversal medication to one of the gap-toothed children in that very room. The law enforcement perspective that has been broadcast to every K-12 student in America is not just incomplete—it is dangerous. Politicians and voters alike are buying into the narrative of cracking down on crime. There is now a push to implement minimum mandatory sentencing for drug possession. Meanwhile, my community is dying. What if instead of law enforcement officers, we were to amplify the voices of drug users and healthcare professionals? After all, substance use is a medical issue, not a crime, and certainly not a question of morality. Instead of police officers telling us not to try drugs because we will get in trouble, I want every American to hear a speech given by someone living in People's Park. I want them to hear the story of someone who has overdosed. I want them to understand the humanity of those with a substance use disorder, that it truly could be anyone. If we are old enough to die from addiction, we are old enough to tell our stories. I believe that the only way to break the vicious cycle of use and overdose that has taken root in my streets is by uplifting the voices of those who have a substance use disorder. My perspective on drug use is informed by the time I heard Martha, a heroin user who visits the same food pantry as I do, describe heroin in a hushed voice as "the great beast" that lives inside her. Or Anna, a Black trans woman, detailing her use of methamphetamine as a way to escape from the trauma of sex work. Or Luis, who was prescribed oxycontin at 15, then tried heroin to stave off the excruciating withdrawals. If drug users were able to tell their stories to the same audience as law enforcement officers do, then the public narrative on this issue would be radically different. I believe uplifting their voices is the only way for my community to survive.

Administer the first dose. Call emergency services. Wait two minutes. Switch nostrils. Administer another. Wait. Wait. As a volunteer with Berkeley Need, I travel to homeless encampments in Berkeley and Oakland, distributing naloxone, exchanging clean syringes for dirty ones, and providing free testing for various blood-borne pathogens, including HIV. I am a low-income college student living less than a block away from People's Park, a historic place of residence for unhoused people in the Bay Area. This means I often find myself on the front lines of the crisis of substance use in America—a crisis resulting from decades of inaction. At seventeen, after witnessing my first overdose, I decided to get a naloxone administration certification. In the long weeks between completing my training and receiving my first naloxone kit, I witnessed two more overdoses. I will always remember the breathless fear of calling 9-1-1, and waiting, and waiting. Last week, I recognized someone I treated. As we waited for emergency responders to arrive, the person I resuscitated asked if I remember Ms. Campbell. We had been in her class together in the fifth grade. He smiled, then thanked me for saving his life. I still remember the law enforcement officers who visited Ms. Campbell's class as part of our drug education program. Their message was clear and concise: never do drugs. At the time, I did not know that, before either of us turned eighteen, I would administer emergency overdose reversal medication to one of the gap-toothed children in that very room. It is no coincidence that my community is falling prey to this crisis. Since the beginning of the drug epidemic, it has been low-income communities of color who have suffered the most. Although initially, I only planned to volunteer on the weekends, I find myself making multiple rounds a day. In the months since I began my work, I have never gone a single round without having to administer at least one dose of Narcan. My view for my future has become my community's survival. As a bioengineer, I want to combat the substance use crisis that my community is facing. I hope to develop more effective medication to combat overdose deaths and alleviate withdrawals. Although naloxone is extremely effective for opioids, there are few options for reversing the effects of a stimulant overdose, which can be equally deadly. I also want to contribute to the effort of finding pain relief medications that are effective without being addictive. Most intravenous drug users begin using illicit drugs to stave off the withdrawals of a perfectly legal prescription. I want to reduce the frequency of this transition, both by developing less addictive pain medications and by finding ways to reduce the intensity and duration of withdrawals. Between a full courseload of engineering classes and Berkeley Need shifts every weekend, I am typically only able to pick up a few shifts at work—just enough to pay for food for my best friend's children, who both she and I are working to support. I can only afford one meal for myself each day unless I cut back on volunteering. It is a sacrifice I am unwilling to make, so I visit the food pantry. Sometimes, I see people from my high school there. I know Miguel, who runs the place, so he lets us eat inside. As we eat, we talk. I learn about their lives. Martha describes heroin as "the great beast" inside her, leaves for the bathroom, and returns with pinpoint pupils. As we leave the food pantry, Miguel tells us he hopes we never have to come back again.

Every morning, I take the university bus from my apartment to class. Every evening, I take it back home. I walk everywhere else, I promise. I buy only local produce. My clothes are thrifted. Even my shoes are secondhand. And yet, I felt guilty every time I smelt the exhaust of my bus driving away. I had to do something. Now, as head researcher in the Melis laboratory, I am leading a research initiative to use the genetic editing tool CRISPR to increase the lipid production of C. vulgaris algae. If successful, this project would make C. vulgaris a much more efficient biofuel producer, enabling my team to produce enough biofuel to fully sustain all of the university buses on the UC Berkeley campus by 2026—the year of my graduation. By making my own life more sustainable, I can help make my community's lives more sustainable. Many believe that individuals are powerless in the face of the hulking threat that is climate change; that all change must happen at the community level. However, I believe that it is the responsibility of every individual to make decisions that support the health, welfare, and sustainability of the collective. My skills as a bioengineering student are uniquely suited to synthesizing biofuels—perfect for transitioning the university buses away from gasoline. My friend, a chemical engineering student, is working on a project to increase the efficiency of nuclear fusion, another alternative to fossil fuels that is becoming more viable by the day. Another friend, an English student, is helping my team write compelling applications for research grants, to fund more sustainability initiatives. I have learned that a collective can only realize its power when its constituent individuals have realized its power. I stand in solidarity with the teenage girls who exclusively shop at Goodwill. They are responsible for popularizing thrift shopping as a normal—even trendy!—way of exploring fashion. I stand in solidarity with the avocado-toast vegans that line up at the bakeries on my street. Their staunch refusal to support factory farms has led to my university considering ending its relationship with Tyson, the famously environmentally harmful food processing company, for the first time. I stand in solidarity with the commuters on every train. They are the reason the train system in the Bay Area has the funding to expand its coverage, so fewer cars will be on the road come 2035. Every one of us who chooses to live sustainably is measurably improving the health of our planet. I strive to treat our planet with respect and dignity. To minimize water use, my roommates and I all do our laundry in the same load. During the hot summers, my family and I compete to see who can last the longest without turning on the air conditioning. We inspire each other to change in small ways: to compromise the length of our showers just a little bit; to choose paper over plastic. Tomorrow morning, when I take the bus to school, I will still smell the exhaust. But soon, I will no longer.

Administer the first dose. Call emergency services. Wait two minutes. Switch nostrils. Administer another. Wait. Wait. As a volunteer with Berkeley Need, I travel to homeless encampments in Berkeley and Oakland, administering naloxone, exchanging clean syringes for dirty ones, and providing free testing for various blood-borne pathogens, including HIV. I am a low-income college student living less than a block away from People's Park, a historic place of residence for unhoused people in the Bay Area. This means I often find myself on the front lines of the crisis of substance use in America—a crisis resulting from decades of inadequate education. At seventeen, after witnessing my first overdose, I decided to get a naloxone administration certification. In the long weeks between completing my training and receiving my first naloxone kit, I witnessed two more overdoses. I will always remember the breathless fear of calling 9-1-1, and waiting, and waiting. Last week, I recognized someone I treated. As we waited for emergency responders to arrive, the person I resuscitated asked if I remember Ms. Campbell. We had been in her class together in the fifth grade. He smiled, then thanked me for saving his life. I still remember the law enforcement officers who visited Ms. Campbell's class as part of our drug education program. Their message was clear and concise: never do drugs. At the time, I did not know that, before either of us turned eighteen, I would administer emergency overdose reversal medication to one of the gap-toothed children in that very room. Although initially, I only planned to volunteer on the weekends, I find myself making multiple rounds a day. In the months since I began my work, I have never gone a single round without having to administer at least one dose of Narcan. My goal for my career has become my community's survival. As a bioengineer, I want to combat the substance use crisis that my community is facing. I hope to develop more effective medication to combat overdose deaths and alleviate withdrawals. Although naloxone is extremely effective for opioids, there are few options for reversing the effects of a stimulant overdose, which can be equally deadly. I also want to contribute to the effort of finding pain relief medications that are effective without being addictive. Most intravenous drug users begin using illicit drugs to stave off the withdrawals of a perfectly legal prescription. I want to reduce the frequency of this transition, both by developing less addictive pain medications and by finding ways to reduce the intensity and duration of withdrawals. My story is the story of my community. My elementary school teachers. My high school friends. The family that lives down the street. I want to help them, and everyone else who has experienced the devastation of this epidemic firsthand. If my work as a bioengineer stops even one of Ms. Campbell's students from overdosing, I will have changed the world.

Administer the first dose. Call emergency services. Wait two minutes. Switch nostrils. Administer another. Wait. Wait. As a volunteer with Berkeley Need, I travel to homeless encampments in Berkeley and Oakland, administering naloxone, exchanging clean syringes for dirty ones, and providing free testing for various blood-borne pathogens, including HIV. I am a low-income college student living less than a block away from People's Park, a historic place of residence for unhoused people in the Bay Area. This means I often find myself on the front lines of the crisis of substance use in America—a crisis resulting from decades of inadequate education. At seventeen, after witnessing my first overdose, I decided to get a naloxone administration certification. In the long weeks between completing my training and receiving my first naloxone kit, I witnessed two more overdoses. I will always remember the breathless fear of calling 9-1-1, and waiting, and waiting. Last week, I recognized someone I treated. As we waited for emergency responders to arrive, the person I resuscitated asked if I remember Ms. Campbell. We had been in her class together in the fifth grade. He smiled, then thanked me for saving his life. I still remember the law enforcement officers who visited Ms. Campbell's class as part of our drug education program. Their message was clear and concise: never do drugs. At the time, I did not know that, before either of us turned eighteen, I would administer emergency overdose reversal medication to one of the gap-toothed children in that very room. Although initially, I only planned to volunteer on the weekends, I find myself making multiple rounds a day. In the months since I began my work, I have never gone a single round without having to administer at least one dose of Narcan. My goal for my career has become my community's survival. As a bioengineer, I want to combat the substance use crisis that my community is facing. I hope to develop more effective medication to combat overdose deaths and alleviate withdrawals. Although naloxone is extremely effective for opioids, there are few options for reversing the effects of a stimulant overdose, which can be equally deadly. I also want to contribute to the effort of finding pain relief medications that are effective without being addictive. Most intravenous drug users begin using illicit drugs to stave off the withdrawals of a perfectly legal prescription. I want to reduce the frequency of this transition, both by developing less addictive pain medications and by finding ways to reduce the intensity and duration of withdrawals. My story is the story of my community. My elementary school teachers. My high school friends. The family that lives down the street. I want to help them, and everyone else who has experienced the devastation of this epidemic firsthand. If my work as a bioengineer stops even one of Ms. Campbell's students from overdosing, I will have changed the world.

Administer the first dose. Call emergency services. Wait two minutes. Switch nostrils. Administer another. Wait. Wait. As a volunteer with Berkeley Need, I travel to homeless encampments in Berkeley and Oakland, distributing naloxone, exchanging clean syringes for dirty ones, and providing free testing for various blood-borne pathogens, including HIV. I am a low-income college student living less than a block away from People's Park, a historic place of residence for unhoused people in the Bay Area. This means I often find myself on the front lines of the crisis of substance use in America—a crisis resulting from decades of inaction. At seventeen, after witnessing my first overdose, I decided to get a naloxone administration certification. In the long weeks between completing my training and receiving my first naloxone kit, I witnessed two more overdoses. I will always remember the breathless fear of calling 9-1-1, and waiting, and waiting. Last week, I recognized someone I treated. As we waited for emergency responders to arrive, the person I resuscitated asked if I remember Ms. Campbell. We had been in her class together in the fifth grade. He smiled, then thanked me for saving his life. I still remember the law enforcement officers who visited Ms. Campbell's class as part of our drug education program. Their message was clear and concise: never do drugs. At the time, I did not know that, before either of us turned eighteen, I would administer emergency overdose reversal medication to one of the gap-toothed children in that very room. It is no coincidence that my community is falling prey to this crisis. Since the beginning of the drug epidemic, it has been low-income communities of color who have suffered the most. Although initially, I only planned to volunteer on the weekends, I find myself making multiple rounds a day. In the months since I began my work, I have never gone a single round without having to administer at least one dose of Narcan. My view for my future has become my community's survival. As a bioengineer, I want to combat the substance use crisis that my community is facing. I hope to develop more effective medication to combat overdose deaths and alleviate withdrawals. Although naloxone is extremely effective for opioids, there are few options for reversing the effects of a stimulant overdose, which can be equally deadly. I also want to contribute to the effort of finding pain relief medications that are effective without being addictive. Most intravenous drug users begin using illicit drugs to stave off the withdrawals of a perfectly legal prescription. I want to reduce the frequency of this transition, both by developing less addictive pain medications and by finding ways to reduce the intensity and duration of withdrawals. My story is the story of my community. My elementary school teachers. My high school friends. The family that lives down the street. I want to help them, and everyone else who has experienced the devastation of this epidemic firsthand. If my work as a bioengineer stops even one of Ms. Campbell's students from overdosing, I will have changed the world.

Administer the first dose. Call emergency services. Wait two minutes. Switch nostrils. Administer another. Wait. Wait. As a volunteer with Berkeley Need, I travel to homeless encampments in Berkeley and Oakland, distributing naloxone, exchanging clean syringes for dirty ones, and providing free testing for various blood-borne pathogens, including HIV. I am a low-income college student living less than a block away from People's Park, a historic place of residence for unhoused people in the Bay Area. This means I often find myself on the front lines of the crisis of substance use in America—a crisis resulting from decades of inaction. At seventeen, after witnessing my first overdose, I decided to get a naloxone administration certification. In the long weeks between completing my training and receiving my first naloxone kit, I witnessed two more overdoses. I will always remember the breathless fear of calling 9-1-1, and waiting, and waiting. Last week, I recognized someone I treated. As we waited for emergency responders to arrive, the person I resuscitated asked if I remember Ms. Campbell. We had been in her class together in the fifth grade. He smiled, then thanked me for saving his life. I still remember the law enforcement officers who visited Ms. Campbell's class as part of our drug education program. Their message was clear and concise: never do drugs. At the time, I did not know that, before either of us turned eighteen, I would administer emergency overdose reversal medication to one of the gap-toothed children in that very room. It is no coincidence that my community is falling prey to this crisis. Since the beginning of the drug epidemic, it has been low-income communities of color who have suffered the most. Although initially, I only planned to volunteer on the weekends, I find myself making multiple rounds a day. In the months since I began my work, I have never gone a single round without having to administer at least one dose of Narcan. My view for my future has become my community's survival. As a bioengineer, I want to combat the substance use crisis that my community is facing. I hope to develop more effective medication to combat overdose deaths and alleviate withdrawals. Although naloxone is extremely effective for opioids, there are few options for reversing the effects of a stimulant overdose, which can be equally deadly. I also want to contribute to the effort of finding pain relief medications that are effective without being addictive. Most intravenous drug users begin using illicit drugs to stave off the withdrawals of a perfectly legal prescription. I want to reduce the frequency of this transition, both by developing less addictive pain medications and by finding ways to reduce the intensity and duration of withdrawals. Between a full courseload of engineering classes and Berkeley Need shifts every weekend, I am typically only able to pick up a few shifts at work—just enough to pay for food for my best friend's children, who both she and I are working to support. I can only afford one meal for myself each day unless I cut back on volunteering or school. These are sacrifices I am unwilling to make, so I visit the food pantry. Sometimes, I see people from my high school there. I know Miguel, who runs the place, so he lets us eat inside. As we eat, we talk. I learn about their lives. Martha describes heroin as "the great beast" inside her, leaves for the bathroom, and returns with pinpoint pupils. I leave the food pantry renewed in my conviction. I have to go home and study.

Administer the first dose. Call emergency services. Wait two minutes. Switch nostrils. Administer another. Wait. Wait. As a volunteer with Berkeley Need, I travel to homeless encampments in Berkeley and Oakland, distributing naloxone, exchanging clean syringes for dirty ones, and providing free testing for various blood-borne pathogens, including HIV. I am a low-income college student living less than a block away from People's Park, a historic place of residence for unhoused people in the Bay Area. This means I often find myself on the front lines of the crisis of substance use in America—a crisis resulting from decades of inaction. At seventeen, after witnessing my first overdose, I decided to get a naloxone administration certification. In the long weeks between completing my training and receiving my first naloxone kit, I witnessed two more overdoses. I will always remember the breathless fear of calling 9-1-1, and waiting, and waiting. Last week, I recognized someone I treated. As we waited for emergency responders to arrive, the person I resuscitated asked if I remember Ms. Campbell. We had been in her class together in the fifth grade. He smiled, then thanked me for saving his life. I still remember the law enforcement officers who visited Ms. Campbell's class as part of our drug education program. Their message was clear and concise: never do drugs. At the time, I did not know that, before either of us turned eighteen, I would administer emergency overdose reversal medication to one of the gap-toothed children in that very room. It is no coincidence that my community is falling prey to this crisis. Since the beginning of the drug epidemic, it has been low-income communities of color who have suffered the most. Although initially, I only planned to volunteer on the weekends, I find myself making multiple rounds a day. In the months since I began my work, I have never gone a single round without having to administer at least one dose of Narcan. My goal for my future has become my community's survival. As a bioengineer, I want to combat the substance use crisis that my community is facing. I hope to develop more effective medication to combat overdose deaths and alleviate withdrawals. Although naloxone is extremely effective for opioids, there are few options for reversing the effects of a stimulant overdose, which can be equally deadly. I also want to contribute to the effort of finding pain relief medications that are effective without being addictive. Most intravenous drug users begin using illicit drugs to stave off the withdrawals of a perfectly legal prescription. I want to reduce the frequency of this transition, both by developing less addictive pain medications and by finding ways to reduce the intensity and duration of withdrawals. My story is the story of my community. My elementary school teachers. My high school friends. The family that lives down the street. I want to help them, and everyone else who has experienced the devastation of this epidemic firsthand. If my work as a bioengineer stops even one of Ms. Campbell's students from overdosing, I will have created a better future.

Administer the first dose. Call emergency services. Wait two minutes. Switch nostrils. Administer another. Wait. Wait. As a volunteer with Berkeley Need, I travel to homeless encampments in Berkeley and Oakland, distributing naloxone, exchanging clean syringes for dirty ones, and providing free testing for various blood-borne pathogens, including HIV. I am a low-income college student living less than a block away from People's Park, a historic place of residence for unhoused people in the Bay Area. This means I often find myself on the front lines of the crisis of substance use in America—a crisis resulting from decades of inaction. At seventeen, after witnessing my first overdose, I decided to get a naloxone administration certification. In the long weeks between completing my training and receiving my first naloxone kit, I witnessed two more overdoses. I will always remember the breathless fear of calling 9-1-1, and waiting, and waiting. Last week, I recognized someone I treated. As we waited for emergency responders to arrive, the person I resuscitated asked if I remember Ms. Campbell. We had been in her class together in the fifth grade. He smiled, then thanked me for saving his life. I still remember the law enforcement officers who visited Ms. Campbell's class as part of our drug education program. Their message was clear and concise: never do drugs. At the time, I did not know that, before either of us turned eighteen, I would administer emergency overdose reversal medication to one of the gap-toothed children in that very room. It is no coincidence that my community is falling prey to this crisis. Since the beginning of the drug epidemic, it has been low-income communities of color who have suffered the most. Although initially, I only planned to volunteer on the weekends, I find myself making multiple rounds a day. In the months since I began my work, I have never gone a single round without having to administer at least one dose of Narcan. My view for my future has become my community's survival. As a bioengineer, I want to combat the substance use crisis that my community is facing. I hope to develop more effective medication to combat overdose deaths and alleviate withdrawals. Although naloxone is extremely effective for opioids, there are few options for reversing the effects of a stimulant overdose, which can be equally deadly. I also want to contribute to the effort of finding pain relief medications that are effective without being addictive. Most intravenous drug users begin using illicit drugs to stave off the withdrawals of a perfectly legal prescription. I want to reduce the frequency of this transition, both by developing less addictive pain medications and by finding ways to reduce the intensity and duration of withdrawals. Between a full courseload of engineering classes and Berkeley Need shifts every weekend, I am typically only able to pick up a few shifts at work—just enough to pay for food for my best friend's children, who both she and I are working to support. I can only afford one meal for myself each day unless I cut back on volunteering. It is a sacrifice I am unwilling to make, so I visit the food pantry. Sometimes, I see people from my high school there. I know Miguel, who runs the place, so he lets us eat inside. As we eat, we talk. I learn about their lives. Martha describes heroin as "the great beast" inside her, leaves for the bathroom, and returns with pinpoint pupils. As we leave the food pantry, Miguel tells us he hopes we never have to come back again.

Administer the first dose. Call emergency services. Wait two minutes. Switch nostrils. Administer another. Wait. Wait. As a volunteer with Berkeley Need, I travel to homeless encampments in Berkeley and Oakland, administering naloxone, exchanging clean syringes for dirty ones, and providing free testing for various blood-borne pathogens, including HIV. I am a low-income college student living less than a block away from People's Park, a historic place of residence for unhoused people in the Bay Area. This means I often find myself on the front lines of the crisis of substance use in America—a crisis resulting from decades of inadequate education. At seventeen, after witnessing my first overdose, I decided to get a naloxone administration certification. In the long weeks between completing my training and receiving my first naloxone kit, I witnessed two more overdoses. I will always remember the breathless fear of calling 9-1-1, and waiting, and waiting. Last week, I recognized someone I treated. As we waited for emergency responders to arrive, the person I resuscitated asked if I remember Ms. Campbell. We had been in her class together in the fifth grade. He smiled, then thanked me for saving his life. I still remember the law enforcement officers who visited Ms. Campbell's class as part of our drug education program. Their message was clear and concise: never do drugs. At the time, I did not know that, before either of us turned eighteen, I would administer emergency overdose reversal medication to one of the gap-toothed children in that very room. Although initially, I only planned to volunteer on the weekends, I find myself making multiple rounds a day. In the months since I began my work, I have never gone a single round without having to administer at least one dose of Narcan. My goal for my career has become my community's survival. As a bioengineer, I want to combat the substance use crisis that my community is facing. I hope to develop more effective medication to combat overdose deaths and alleviate withdrawals. Although naloxone is extremely effective for opioids, there are few options for reversing the effects of a stimulant overdose, which can be equally deadly. I also want to contribute to the effort of finding pain relief medications that are effective without being addictive. Most intravenous drug users begin using illicit drugs to stave off the withdrawals of a perfectly legal prescription. I want to reduce the frequency of this transition, both by developing less addictive pain medications and by finding ways to reduce the intensity and duration of withdrawals. My story is the story of my community. My elementary school teachers. My high school friends. The family that lives down the street. I want to help them, and everyone else who has experienced the devastation of this epidemic firsthand. If my work as a bioengineer stops even one of Ms. Campbell's students from overdosing, I will have changed the world.

Administer the first dose. Call emergency services. Wait two minutes. Switch nostrils. Again. Wait. As a volunteer with Berkeley Need, I travel to homeless encampments in Berkeley, distributing naloxone, exchanging clean syringes for dirty ones, and providing free testing for various blood-borne pathogens, including HIV. I am a low-income college student living less than a block away from People's Park, a historic sanctuary for unhoused people in the Bay Area. This means I often find myself on the front lines of the drug epidemic in America—a crisis resulting from decades of inadequate education. At seventeen, after witnessing my first overdose, I decided to get a naloxone administration certification. In the long weeks between completing my training and receiving my first naloxone kit, I witnessed two more overdoses. I will always remember the breathless fear of calling 9-1-1, and waiting, and waiting. Last week, I recognized someone I treated. As we waited for emergency responders to arrive, the person I resuscitated asked if I remember Ms. Campbell. We had been in her class together in the fifth grade. He smiled, then thanked me for saving his life. This is what perseverance means to me. I still remember the law enforcement officers who visited Ms. Campbell's class as part of our drug education program. Their message was clear and concise: never do drugs. At the time, I did not know that, before either of us turned eighteen, I would administer emergency overdose reversal medication to one of the gap-toothed children in that very room. It is no coincidence that my community is falling prey to this crisis. Since the beginning of the drug epidemic, it has been low-income communities of color who have suffered the most. Although initially, I only planned to volunteer on the weekends, I find myself making multiple rounds a day. In the months since I began my work, I have never gone a single round without having to administer at least one life-saving dose of Narcan. The work often seems hopeless. I carry on anyways. This is what perseverance means to me. My perseverance is my community's survival. As a bioengineer, I want to combat the substance use crisis that my community is facing. I hope to develop more effective medication to combat overdose deaths and alleviate withdrawals. My goals for the future are inextricably intertwined with the struggles of my friends, family, and community, and I am committed to seeing my education through. Right now, the primary obstacle I am facing in this goal is affording food. Food prices are skyrocketing, and there seem to be no signs of stopping. Between a full courseload of engineering classes and Berkeley Need shifts every weekend, I am typically only able to pick up enough shifts at work—just enough to pay for food for my best friend's children, who both she and I are working to support. I can only afford one meal for myself a day unless I cut back on volunteering. This is a sacrifice I am unwilling to make. This is what perseverance means to me. Sometimes, I see people from my high school at the fresh food pantry. I know Miguel, who runs the place, so he lets us eat inside. As we eat, we talk about our struggles. Our histories. Our dreams. We bond over the fact that we are all often reduced to one data point: our money (or lack thereof). We will see each other here again (we all greatly prefer fresh produce to canned soup). As I leave the food pantry, Miguel tells me to touch the Cesar Chavez poster for luck.

Administer the first dose. Call emergency services. Wait two minutes. Switch nostrils. Administer another. Wait. Wait. As a volunteer with Berkeley Need, I travel to homeless encampments in Berkeley and Oakland, distributing naloxone, exchanging clean syringes for dirty ones, and providing free testing for various blood-borne pathogens, including HIV. I am a low-income college student living less than a block away from People's Park, a historic place of residence for unhoused people in the Bay Area. This means I often find myself on the front lines of the crisis of substance use in America—a crisis resulting from decades of inadequate education. At seventeen, after witnessing my first overdose, I decided to get a naloxone administration certification. In the long weeks between completing my training and receiving my first naloxone kit, I witnessed two more overdoses. I will always remember the breathless fear of calling 9-1-1, and waiting, and waiting. Last week, I recognized someone I treated. As we waited for emergency responders to arrive, the person I resuscitated asked if I remember Ms. Campbell. We had been in her class together in the fifth grade. He smiled, then thanked me for saving his life. I still remember the law enforcement officers who visited Ms. Campbell's class as part of our drug education program. Their message was clear and concise: never do drugs. At the time, I did not know that, before either of us turned eighteen, I would administer emergency overdose reversal medication to one of the gap-toothed children in that very room. It is no coincidence that my community is falling prey to this crisis. Since the beginning of the drug epidemic, it has been low-income communities of color who have suffered the most. Although initially, I only planned to volunteer on the weekends, I find myself making multiple rounds a day. In the months since I began my work, I have never gone a single round without having to administer at least one dose of Narcan. My view for my future has become my community's survival. As a bioengineer, I want to combat the substance use crisis that my community is facing. I hope to develop more effective medication to combat overdose deaths and alleviate withdrawals. My goals for the future are inextricably intertwined with the struggles of my friends, family, and community, and I am committed to seeing my education through. Right now, the primary obstacle I am facing in this goal is affording food. Food prices are skyrocketing, and there seem to be no signs of stopping. Although I have 10 free meals a week through my university, the vegetarian options are limited. Often, I am unable to eat anything except a couple of leaves of lettuce, some tomatoes, and olive oil dressing. Between a full courseload of engineering classes and Berkeley Need shifts every weekend, I am typically only able to pick up enough shifts at work to pay for food for my best friend's children, who both she and I are working to support. I had to drop a class two weeks into this semester because I was unable to manage the workload and also put food on the table. This scholarship would help me support myself so that I can continue caring for my community and the people I love without sacrificing my education in the process. I want the opportunity to build the future of my dreams: one where I can support myself, my family, my friends, and my neighborhood.

Every morning, I take the university bus from my apartment to class. Every evening, I take it back home. I walk everywhere else, I promise. I buy only local produce. My clothes are thrifted. Even my shoes are secondhand. And yet, I felt guilty every time I smelt the exhaust of my bus driving away. I had to do something. Now, as head researcher in the Melis laboratory, I am leading a research initiative to use the genetic editing tool CRISPR to increase the lipid production of C. vulgaris algae. If successful, this project would make C. vulgaris a much more efficient biofuel producer, enabling my team to produce enough biofuel to fully sustain all of the university buses on the UC Berkeley campus by 2026—the year of my graduation. By making my own life more sustainable, I can help make my community's lives more sustainable. Many believe that individuals are powerless in the face of the hulking threat that is climate change; that all change must happen at the community level. However, I believe that it is the responsibility of every individual to make decisions that support the health, welfare, and sustainability of the collective. My skills as a bioengineering student are uniquely suited to synthesizing biofuels—perfect for transitioning the university buses away from gasoline. My friend, a chemical engineering student, is working on a project to increase the efficiency of nuclear fusion, another alternative to fossil fuels that is becoming more viable by the day. Another friend, an English student, is helping my team write compelling applications for research grants, to fund more sustainability initiatives. I have learned that a collective can only realize its power when its constituent individuals have realized its power. I stand in solidarity with the teenage girls who exclusively shop at Goodwill. They are responsible for popularizing thrift shopping as a normal—even trendy!—way of exploring fashion. I stand in solidarity with the avocado-toast vegans that line up at the bakeries on my street. Their staunch refusal to support factory farms has led to my university considering ending its relationship with Tyson, the famously environmentally harmful food processing company, for the first time. I stand in solidarity with the commuters on every train. They are the reason the train system in the Bay Area has the funding to expand its coverage, so fewer cars will be on the road come 2035. Every one of us who chooses to live sustainably is measurably improving the health of our planet. I strive to treat our planet with respect and dignity. To minimize water use, my roommates and I all do our laundry in the same load. During the hot summers, my family and I compete to see who can last the longest without turning on the air conditioning. We inspire each other to change in small ways: to compromise the length of our showers just a little bit; to choose paper over plastic. Tomorrow morning, when I take the bus to school, I will still smell the exhaust. But soon, I will not.

Administer the first dose. Call emergency services. Wait two minutes. Switch nostrils. Administer another. Wait. Wait. As a volunteer with Berkeley NEED, I travel to homeless encampments in Berkeley and Oakland, distributing naloxone, exchanging clean syringes for dirty ones, and providing free testing for various blood-borne pathogens, including HIV. I am a low-income college student living less than a block away from People's Park, a historic place of residence for unhoused people in the Bay Area. This means I often find myself on the front lines of the crisis of substance use in America—a crisis resulting from decades of inadequate education. At seventeen, after witnessing my first overdose, I decided to get a naloxone administration certification. In the long weeks between completing my training and receiving my first naloxone kit, I witnessed two more overdoses. I will always remember the breathless fear of calling 9-1-1, and waiting, and waiting. Substance use is not new to these communities—many of my neighbors once self-identified as "lifetime users", people who worked around their substance use disorders to create a stable life. However, the chemicals that street drugs are now being cut with are new. And they're changing. As I wander the streets with my bag full of naloxone, I find that each overdose is requiring more and more naloxone to subside. The most recent one required seven doses. Once, I recognized someone I treated. As we waited for emergency responders to arrive, the person I resuscitated asked if I remember Ms. Campbell. We had been in her class together in the fifth grade. He smiled, then thanked me for saving his life. I still remember the law enforcement officers who visited Ms. Campbell's class as part of our drug education program. Their message was clear and concise: never do drugs, or you will get in trouble. Never do drugs, or you will become a bad person. At the time, I did not know that, before either of us turned eighteen, I would administer emergency overdose reversal medication to one of the gap-toothed children in that very room. Substance use education based on fear and shame never works. I believe that the only way to break the vicious cycle of use and overdose that has taken root in my streets is by educating teenagers about substance use disorder in a meaningful way. The drugs that find their way to our communities are ever-changing. Drug education must evolve with them. Any education about substance use disorder that stops at abstinence is ineffective and unproductive. Drug education should be informed, comprehensive, and focused on making responsible choices. Instead of telling teenagers that they should not try drugs because they might get in trouble, I want to take them to distribute clean syringes in People's Park. I want to help them get Narcan certified. I want them to understand the humanity of those with a substance use disorder, that it truly could be anyone. If we are old enough to die from addiction, we are old enough to meet addicts. I want teenagers to talk to healthcare professionals, not law enforcement officers. Substance use is a medical issue, not a crime, and certainly not a question of morality. Substance use education must go beyond abstinence—if teenagers are to try drugs, as some always have, they should know how to do so as safely as possible. I want to teach teenagers to look out for each other, then teach them how to look out for each other. My ideal drug education is my community's survival.

0.82%. That was the percentage of students who were Indian-American in my high school graduating class. Welcome to Benicia: a small, refinery town in Northern California, lurking right on the border of the Bay Area. From Benicia, it was a two-hour bus ride to the nearest temple, and visiting the Indian grocery store was a luxury reserved for birthdays and special occasions. As a result, I often felt isolated from the larger Indian-American community. I relished the rare opportunity to go to Indian cultural events, where harried aunties would corral the motley group of teenagers into the YMCA gym. There, every interaction was bolstered by a common understanding that felt almost like a secret language. Nobody ever needed to be told to leave their shoes at the door. The girls, sporting the same coconut-oiled, tightly-plaited hair, would laughingly bicker over which Bollywood actor was most attractive, while the boys would retreat to the other side of the gym—it was an unspoken rule that the two groups would only mingle in the snack line, while we waited for chai and biscuits. As I grew older, I found myself longing for this connection more and more frequently. I began attending Hindi classes every Saturday, so I could learn my native language and spend more time with the Indian-American community. To do so, I would take a ferry across the bay, then take two trains and a bus. In total, I spent around five hours traveling round trip... to attend two hours of classes. Despite the cumbersome transit, I loved learning Hindi. My Indian heritage had always isolated me from my peers. For the first time, I felt the power of a shared culture and community. Although now I live in Berkeley, one of the most diverse cities in America, I have not lost my appreciation for the limited aspects of the Indian-American community I had witnessed as a child. To me, Indian-American culture still represents the same wonderful feeling of understanding and connection, even after it has blossomed from the confines of the YMCA gym. Now, I am an active member of the Indian Student Association on campus, and I regularly attend cultural events and performances. For the first time, I have the opportunity to witness (and even participate in) classical Indian dancing, singing, and theater. My fluency in Hindi has opened doors for me as well. I can call my aunts and uncles for updates on this year's sugarcane harvest. My cousins and I can discuss the latest cricket match. When I visit the Indian grocery store, I can comfortably speak to the cashier, and laugh along as his mother chides him for smoking at the counter. Taking the initiative to learn the language of this beautiful community has allowed me to form so many rich relationships with the people in my life. At Berkeley, I strive to nurture and develop my community, both on and off campus. As head researcher in the Melis laboratory, I am leading a research initiative to use the genetic editing tool CRISPR to increase the lipid production of C. vulgaris algae. If successful, this project would make C. vulgaris a much more efficient biofuel producer, enabling my team to produce enough biofuel to fully sustain all of the university buses on the UC Berkeley campus. I believe sustainability is a key part of human development, and want to help sustain this vibrant college community for generations to come. Off-campus, I volunteer with Berkeley NEED, an organization that supports intravenous drug users in the Bay Area. Through Berkeley NEED, I travel to homeless encampments in Berkeley and Oakland, distributing naloxone (an overdose treatment drug), exchanging clean syringes for dirty ones, and providing free testing for various blood-borne pathogens, including HIV. I also work with the Western Service Workers Association, an organization that collaborates with local healthcare workers, lawyers, and grocery stores to provide free or discounted dental care, legal services, food, and water to low-income Oakland residents. Attempting to combat such massive issues as climate change and poverty in my community often feels hopeless—but being an Indian-American has taught me that community is always 100% worth the effort.